


Quiet Clarity

by glacis



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair and Jim handle a temporary separation in very different ways, finding their way home by listening to the clear voice inside that connects the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Clarity

Quiet Clarity, a Sentinel/Guide connection by glacis. "One Clear Voice" performed by Peter Cetera, lyrics appended at the end.

Everyone has an anchor. His was just a little more literal than most.

Usually it was the heat of skin under his fingertips, lighting his way through the chaos of his senses when they went out of control. Once in awhile, it was the warm, musky scent that led him back. But sometimes, the worst times, that wasn't enough. When he was locked inside his body, lost inside his head, it took more.

It took his Guide's voice.

He didn't want to think what might happen should he ever lose his anchor.

The white noise generators weren't working. He hadn't slept in three days. He was biting the head off anyone stupid enough to attract his attention. He'd zoned out eight times in the last thirty six hours.

It was getting bad.

Simon wouldn't, couldn't send him home. There was too much work to do, and Jim Ellison was at least functioning on a basal level. He was juggling five open cases, all less than a week old, not yet dry enough to consider back burner. And all the other detectives were just as busy. Spring had hit with a vengeance, and the bad guys were out there making merry while the sun shone. God only knew the sunshine wouldn't last long in Cascade.

Jim had made it through two stakeouts and one shoot out without killing himself or anyone else on the right side of the law. He figured it was plain dumb luck. If Blair wasn't back at his side soon, he didn't know how much longer he could hold on to what was left of his sanity.

It was hanging by a frayed thread as it was.

He hadn't really understood just why it was so important for Sandburg to head off to the wilds of back hills Tennessee for a week, but since the kid hadn't had a break in nearly three years, and had suffered the loss of several good friends during that time, Jim couldn't really blame him for needing the time to recharge his batteries. He just hadn't expected the absence to hit him this hard. After all, he hadn't zoned in months, thought he had it under control.

Didn't realize he was using Blair's heartbeat as a metronome to send him to sleep at night. Hadn't figured out that the reason he hadn't zoned wasn't because **he** had it so far under control, but because his Guide was doing a damned good job of making sure he didn't need to worry about it. Jim had stopped thinking about why Sandburg was really beside him, subconsciously stuffing the mystical stuff that he wasn't particularly comfortable with down until he could focus on what a good partner the kid was becoming in a cop sense of the word. Clues, back-up, improvising in the face of bad guys, watching his back, yeah, that sort of thing Jim was comfortable with Blair being there to do.

He'd forgotten that all those things were just icing on the cake. Blair was a shaman. A guide. An anchor.

Without him, Jim was adrift in the cacophony of his own thoughts, not to mention drowning in the noise and confusion that surrounded him.

Four more days. Surely he could hold on for four more days.

He had to.

 

Roy.

Jack Kelso, hurt yet again.

Janet.

Hal Buckner, his old advisor.

Genevieve.

Emily Watson.

Brother Timothy. Brother Christopher. Brother Marcus.

Maya.

God. Maya.

His poor, confused Naomi.

They were an honor role of sorts. People who had been killed or otherwise fucked up by his attempt to be too many things to too many people. And not doing a very good job at being any of those things to any of those people.

Innocent bystanders to the train wreck that was his life.

Staring down at the North Carolina border from his perch on a rock along the side of US 441 at the Newfound Gap, he let his mind wander. It was cold, but for once in his life he wasn't really noticing. Perhaps because for once his soul was even colder than his body. He sat completely still, eyes playing over the vista, thoughts roaming over much less beautiful scenery.

Janet's body, prone beside her car, a Chopec arrow in her back, sacrifice to his need to know. Jack, fallen half out of his wheelchair, bleeding from a sniper's bullet, for the same reason. His friend Roy, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was bludgeoned to death for his moral convictions. Emily, who didn't even know what was coming before death caught her in her own office. Hal, who should have known better, and had paid for it, with his life. Genevieve, who had already paid so much, and sacrificed the hope of anything more. The good brothers, who weren't quite as good but were much more human than he'd realized, who'd died with violence they should never have had to face, once they'd escaped from it the first time.

Maya. Twice bitten, too damned stupid to be shy. Was he ever going to learn?

And what about his mother? Naomi still couldn't quite figure out how her son had so thoroughly gone over to the pigs, even though Jim was the exception to her definition of 'pig.' Usually. Until Blair got shot at again, or kidnapped, or doped up, or chained up, or beaten up. Then she'd rant and he'd defend, and Jim would go blithely on his merry way completely unaware that Blair was taking up the cudgel in his honor.

And for what? To be considered a cop.

Which, of course, he wasn't. Simon made sure he knew that. Although it had taken him aback when the Captain had apologized -- **apologized** \-- to **him** \-- and made sure, in his own rather awkward way, that things were all right between them.

Sure they were. But he still wasn't a cop. He was an anthropologist. Sort of. Hadn't been doing a very good job of that, either. Dr. Stoddard had returned from Borneo, full of facts and experiences and bright-eyed wonder, full of regret that Blair hadn't been there to share the discoveries. A tiny part of Blair that was traitorous and insidious was just as disbelieving as the Professor.

That tiny voice was getting louder.

It had driven him out of the loft, out of the Precinct, out of the University, out of Cascade. If he didn't find an answer to satisfy it, he feared it would drive him completely out of Jim Ellison's life. And if that happened, he wasn't sure just what he'd have left.

Which totally sucked.

Because he wasn't sure what he had right now. And if he didn't figure it out, and answer that shrieking little voice, he had the ugly feeling his life was going to explode.

 

 They had cornered the drug runners at an abandoned barn deep in the woods outside Cascade. Jim struggled to hear what was going on inside the darkness of the cavernous building, trying to block out the breathing, rustling, heart-beating, goddamned **noisy** cops all around him, trying to piggy back his sight onto his hearing like Sandburg had taught him, cussing under his breath at the lack of his Guide, then wincing at how loud the words felt on his abused ear drums.

"Four of them, sir," he grunted at Simon, trying unsuccessfully to think through the headache that was threatening to blind him. "Maybe five, I can't get a fix on it."

Hand on gun, gun out of holster. Safety off. Crouch, oh, yeah, he was already crouched. Couldn't see through the darkness. The leaves stank of mold and decay. The gun oil was clogging his sinuses. His skin was itching. Was he cold? He couldn't tell. The world was fuzzing out.

Heartbeats. All around him. Everywhere. Was he talking to Simon? He couldn't tell that, either. His mouth was moving, he thought. But his head was imploding, and he couldn't hold on to it any longer.

The heartbeat he needed to hear just wasn't there. He slid into a maelstrom of noise, seeking the one noise he needed to guide him out of the storm. Not finding it, he began to shut down, devoting more and more of his concentration to the one thing that he was missing, not aware of his actions. He was acting on an instinct older than time, and his time had just run out.

 

Banks stared at him, concerned at the pallor of his best detective's face. Ellison had been acting a little weird ever since Sandburg left to go on his retreat or whatever the hell it had been. Jim hadn't had one of his zone episodes, or whatever the kid called it, in a long time, and Simon thought he had it under control. He had the vague idea that it was a little like some sort of epileptic seizure, that Jim and Blair had worked out some kind of exercises or something to control them, and that the crisis was past. Staring hard at his friend, he had the uneasy feeling he'd gotten complacent a little prematurely.

Ellison looked like shit. Before he could follow that thought up with a question, Jim's face went completely blank. Thinking the detective had heard something threatening, Simon whipped around to stare at the entrance to the barn. Sure enough, the pushers were heading out.

"Great work, Jim!" he tossed over his shoulder, eyes glued to the figures rushing the entrance. He came up in firing position, shouting orders to his team as he went. The first shots took the four suspects by surprise, and there was little return fire, with only one casualty on the side of the criminals and none among the police. Simon went over the top of the overgrown stump he had been using for cover and oversaw the surrender of the suspects. The bust went down like clockwork, and the three living suspects were rounded up and locked down with dispatch.

Turning to congratulate his detective once more on a relatively clean bust, he realized that Ellison wasn't beside him. Thinking about it for a moment he realized he couldn't remember Ellison coming out from cover when he did, either. Leaving his men to their Mirandizing, he half-ran back to the stump he'd been hiding behind. What he found made him drop his fresh cigar and reach out with both hands to his friend.

Jim was laying curled in a fetal position, hands cupped over his ears, eyes clenched tightly shut. He was breathing shallowly, and there was no color in his face at all. When Simon's hands touched his skin, it was cold, with a clammy feel to it. He was obviously in shock, but Simon had a bad feeling there was more to it than simple shock.

Making a quick decision, going on gut instinct and hoping like hell it wouldn't backfire on him, he yelled out, "Brown! Come here!"

The other detective looked up and came over at a run to join his boss. "Sir? Jim?! What happened?" He looked over at Simon, crouched over Ellison.

"Don't ask. Trust me on this. Grab his feet. I need to get him into my car." Simon moved to shove his hands under Ellison's armpits, shifting the man preparatory to lifting him. Brown stared at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance? Looks like he's been hit."

Simon glared at him, and Brown moved automatically to wrap his forearms under Ellison's knees, helping the Captain hoist him up. "He hasn't been hit," Simon ground out. "This … happens once in awhile. Just help me get him to the car."

The suggestion remained unvoiced but strong that Ellison had some sort of seizures, and Simon knew how to deal with them. Brown shrugged, not understanding but quite willing to follow orders, and the two men manhandled Jim's inert body into the passenger seat of the car. With curt thanks and an injunction to stay at the scene and direct clean-up, Simon pointed the car toward Cascade. Maybe, once Jim was back in the loft, he would come to himself. Simon turned the heater up to melt, shot a worried glance at his friend, and stepped on the accelerator.

One thought ran unceasingly under his worry. Where the hell was Sandburg when you needed him?

 

The deep blue green of the mountain forest wasn't holding the answers Blair was searching for, and the soothing he'd expected to find for his soul was strangely absent. Closing his eyes, palms flat on his knees, face lifted to the sunlight filtering through the clouds, Blair concentrated on the sounds and the scents of the earth all around him and sank into a light meditative trance.

His center was off kilter. He was out of place. Out of time. Out of sorts. Slowly, so slowly he didn't realize it was happening until it was a completed action, he moved on the rock until he was facing Cascade. His head tilted to one side in a characteristic listening pose. His heartbeat slowed, and the blood in his veins quieted.

Finally, he could hear.

The first thing he heard was fear. Not of himself, nor of Jim, but of what he might do to Jim in his ignorance. From the beginning he had been relying on instinct, experience and study, combining the three in an odd amalgam to feel his way through the minefield of Jim's senses. When it had been the excitement of a dissertation subject, a living Sentinel to examine and explore, the fear had been edged out by scientific curiosity.

Then the relationship between them had developed. The Sentinel became, simply, Jim. The study mutated into friendship. The friendship developed into love. His mind attempted to flinch from the unremitting honesty of the clear, quiet voice ringing through his soul, but it was held fast by the power in the answers it heard.

He had much to fear. Incacha had named him Shaman, but in his heart he felt like a fraud. His Sentinel, his friend, his love was putting his life into his hands, and those hands were slick with the sweat of indecision and ignorance. He was so afraid of the choices he had to make. He had to choose his path … he would have thought 'find' would be the appropriate word choice, but he had found his path when he found his Sentinel. Now he had to choose which way that path would lead. Toward further responsibility? Toward more choices he felt incapable and unprepared to make? Or toward freedom?

Everything stilled.

Freedom.

It had been his grail his entire life, the legacy of a family of two with ties to none but themselves. But it was an incomplete equation. Made incomplete by the unexpected inclusion of a variable he never would have chosen, and yet had, willingly.

Freely.

The voice rose, singing, deeper and more resonant with each slow pulse. Cutting through the confusion, through the fear, through the lack of confidence, to lay bare the truth at the center of his soul.

There was no freedom without choice. There was no choice about love. His love was his freedom, and within that freedom there could be no fear.

He was home.

His eyes gradually opened, the light in them reflected in the easy smile stretching his lips. There was no choice to make, as his heart and soul had made it for him months before. It was about friendship. It was about trust. It was about love. And it was about listening to, and trusting, the small clear voice ringing through him, that would guide him as he would Guide Jim.

Jim needed him. Equally as important, he needed Jim.

Stretching into the sunshine, finally aware of the spring wind that was cutting through him like a knife, he found himself laughing. Sitting on a rock in the middle of the mountains in March freezing his ass off just to hear himself think, to hear what he should have been able to hear in front of a nice blazing fire in the loft sprawled on the couch next to Jim. He unkinked his back, shook the pins and needles out of his legs, and headed for the rental car. He had a plane to catch. Time to get off his ass and get home. Finally.

And wouldn't the big guy be surprised when he showed up three days early.

 

Jim was curled up on the couch, an afghan draped over him, tucked around him to keep off any draft. Simon sat on the coffee table next to him, staring into his face, clearly worried.

He kept talking to Ellison, as he had seen Sandburg do on the few occasions he'd witnessed a zone out. The other man was less chill and pale than he had been when Simon had first brought him home, but there had been no other improvement. Cursing the kid once more for taking off and not leaving a contact number, he bent closer and kept talking. He'd stay the night, and if Jim wasn't any better in the morning, he'd take him into the hospital. He didn't want to do it, but he had no idea what else to do.

 

Everything was fuzzy dark and closed off. He couldn't smell anything, wasn't aware of his tongue, or his ears or his eyes at all. He floated in a cold place, a dark place, searching, frightened, a little angry, a little panicked. There was something he needed, something that was missing, but he couldn't find it and couldn't remember what it was that he should be trying to find.

There was a buzzing around him. It was a dim thread of light in the fuzzy darkness. It looped around him, circled him, shot off to the side. It never came close enough for him to touch it, or for it to touch him. It was vaguely familiar, and not at all threatening, but it was not what he needed. He ignored it, and kept searching.

Somewhere in the darkness, there was a thin keening cry, a rasping breathy tortured sound that hurt. A flash went through him … a cat … bleeding … crying … its tongue was lolling out of the side of its mouth. Blood was trickling from its nostrils. Its eyes were open. Its skin was flayed from its body. Its paws were scrabbling, scratching at the air around it, scratching at itself, flaying away chunks of fur, strips of flesh. Its eyes were wild, searching. Lost.

The flash disappeared. The buzzing light brightened, then with a single flare, dimmed to the point of near nonexistence.

He saw, felt, noticed, turned from it.

It was not what he needed.

He was deaf to the cry behind him. It was not what he needed to hear.

 

As the airplane was circling for final approach to Cascade International, Blair felt his chest suddenly clench. His vision narrowed, his breath caught in his throat as his lungs constricted. Sweat broke out on his face and down his body, and his muscles twisted in a full blown panic attack.

Something was **way** wrong, here. There was a compulsion in him, it had him on his feet before the plane finished taxiing. Had him out the door practically before the steward could open it. Screamed through his throat at a cab driver, threw money at the front seat, forget the carry-all, all hell was breaking loose and he was going to be too late if he didn't **get there**.

Unaware of either the hesitant look on the driver's face or the nearly two hundred dollars he'd thrown at the man, Blair huddled in the back seat, arms curled around his midriff, hair hanging in his face. His fingers dug into his ribs, causing bruises, as he stared unseeing at the sunset painting the clouds orange over the Sound.

"Hurry, man, gotta hurry, gotta get there. Hang on, big guy, hang in there, Jim, I'm coming, it's gonna be okay, just hold on, Jim …" The litany continued for the short forty five minutes it took to make it through the outskirts of Cascade and onto Prospect. Judging by the tightness in his chest and the trembling making its way down his limbs, the trip had taken a lifetime.

Not acknowledging the half-hearted offering of change from the driver, Blair threw himself out the door of the cab and staggered at a drunken run into the building. He didn't hear the acceleration as the cab pulled away, or the exclamation of the neighbor he pushed past on his way up the stairs. Words were tumbling from him compulsively, trying to push back the darkness he could feel pressing all around him, knowing, somehow, that he was throwing out a lifeline and saving his own life in the process.

He didn't have his key, couldn't remember where it was hidden, didn't give a flying fuck. Blair hit the door with his out-thrust foot, breaking the latch and causing it to slam against the counter. He never slowed down. He didn't even see Simon standing guard over Jim, gun drawn and pointed defensively at the broken door. The darkness was suffocating him. He was drowning.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on hold on holdonholdonholdon--"

 

Simon watched in slack-jawed amazement as Sandburg burst through the door with a commando kick that would have warmed the cockles of any Army Rangers' sergeant's heart. He was on his feet instinctively, weapon out and primed to meet the threat, but the 'threat' didn't even acknowledge him. Muttering something that sounded like an incantation under his breath, Blair ran full tilt into the apartment, hurdled the coffee table and landed full length on top of Jim.

It would have been funny except for the sheer heartbreaking urgency in the way the young man burrowed into his unresponsive partner. Shaking hands shoved the afghan aside, strong arms wrapping around Ellison's broad chest, sturdy legs worming their way around Ellison's, as Sandburg buried his head under Ellison's chin and spoke directly into the hollow of his throat. Simon wondered, for an instant, if he should suggest that talking into the detective's **ear** might do more good, but he held it back. He didn't understand the connection between these two -- might never understand it -- and he wasn't about to interfere now.

He slowly holstered his gun, backed away slightly and lowered himself into the armchair. His eyes were locked on the near-frantic movements as Sandburg seemed to do his damnedest to envelop Ellison completely in his presence. Simon hoped it would work. He had the oddest thought that if it didn't, he was going to lose two friends tonight.

 

The darkness was deepening. He was adrift. He thought he should care, but he wasn't aware enough to recognize the thought as such. The dim little thread of light was gone. The keening was back, and he listened to it intently, wondering vaguely if that was what he was missing.

It wasn't.

He started to relax, letting go, giving himself over to the current.

Then he heard it.

It was very small. But it held a crystal clarity in the stillness of his mind that he recognized and responded to instinctively. It was a whisper of light, a single note reverberating through him, until everything around him shivered at t the same pitch. He went completely still, closed off everything, everything except that one clear tone.

It fit.

The missing component that he had been searching so hard for had returned. He heard it clearly, in the warm pure tone, in the steady thumping rhythm lying securely over him like a blanket, in the strong rushing harmony snaking out along his arms and legs, anchoring him as he had needed so badly to be anchored. Drawing him back from the darkness.

The confusion disappeared.

He was home.

Finding his body again, feeling his bones and his muscles and his flesh and his skin, he lifted surprisingly heavy arms up to loop them around his anchor, anchor him in turn. Sighing out then breathing in slowly, he was surrounded by the scent of home, of security, of safety and earth, grounding another sense back into reality. The scent was strong enough to taste, and he did, sorting through residual fear, haste, contentment, belonging, urgency, and triumph. With a final supreme effort, he opened his eyes and gazed down at a tangle of sable curls, broad shoulders, muscles bunched as long arms held him tightly. Down the sweep of back, over the mound of rump, to the strong legs entwined with his own. In the back of his mind, a question formed, but the feeling of contentment and fatigue washed it back into a far corner. Time enough for that, later. Right now, all was right, he was home, the kid was back were he belonged. They could sort the details out later.

Jim nuzzled his chin against the soft curls, tightened his hold on his Guide, snuggled deeper into the couch cushions, and fell sound asleep.

 

Blair could feel the moment when Jim found him, felt the reconnection with every atom of his being. Something deep inside clicked, and his center settled right back down where it belonged. The quiet voice he'd heard on the top of a mountain in Tennessee whispered gently, happily, to him, and he smiled into the warmth of Jim's throat. Now he knew. Now he was free. He had made his choice. He was home.

The whisper settled into the same cadence as the rise and fall of the chest beneath him, and sang him to sleep.

 

Simon Banks stared at the unlikeliest partners he'd ever seen, and sighed deeply. No, he didn't think he'd ever figure out what the hell was going on. But then, he didn't really need to know. They'd figured it out, that much was obvious, and that was what was important. He didn't think he needed to worry about another week like the one they'd all just suffered through. Something important had happened here tonight. And he had a sneaking suspicion it was only the beginning.

Rising quietly to his feet, moving softly so as not to awaken the sleepers, he went to the door and turned out the light. Stepping into the doorway, he blocked the door as best he could and made a mental note to give Jim the morning off to fix the lock. All in all, it had been a hell of a week. He shook his head, retrieved a fresh cigar from the case Daryl had given him, and headed down the stairs. Should be interesting to see where it went from here, he thought with an internal grin.

 

In the darkest corner of the loft, there was a rustle of movement. A battered, weary panther padded over to the two figures wrapped around one another on the couch. A velvet wet nose touched the fingers twined around one another, held tight between the ribcages, long whiskers flicking once, twice. Then the strong legs folded and the big cat lay down, shifting to settle its weight against the front of the couch. Ears twitching to sounds only it could hear, it rested its head on its crossed paws and drifted off to sleep.

**f*i*n*i*s**

 _One Clear Voice_

_The whole world is talking, drowning out my voice._

_How can I hear myself with all this noise?_

_But all this confusion just disappears_

_when I find a quiet place where I can hear_

_One clear voice, calling out for me to listen,_

_One clear voice, whispers words of wisdom._

_I close my eyes 'til I find what I've been missing._

_If I'm very still, I will hear_

_One clear voice._

_I'm always searching for which path to take._

_Sometimes I'm so afraid to make mistakes._

_From somewhere inside me, stronger than my fears,_

_just like the sound of music to my ears, I hear_

_One clear voice._

 


End file.
